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Thread: The Lost Chronicles of Johto (v.2)

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    Default The Lost Chronicles of Johto (v.2)


    (We be revisin' this mess still. Stay tuned.)

    Summary: The characters of the Gold/Silver/Crystal game line have decided that since no one seems to like to write about them, then to hell with it! They will! AND YOU'RE GOING TO EFFIN' LIKE IT!

    Rated: PG-13 -- Explicit language and sexual material. And a fakemon. A ridiculous, over-the-top fakemon.
    Genre: Parody/Humor
    Disclaimer: NOPE.

    Chapter Index (last update 9/12/09)

    1) From the Middle of Nowhere
    2) The Plant They Call Cannabis
    3) Eeveesquiramachu and Sweet, Sweet Lemons
    4) Johto: Anything Past the Colon is Significant
    5) R-E-V-I-E-W Spells Superpowers
    6) They Call Me the POKéMON PROF.!
    7) I Kicked You Two Squares Back and One to the Left
    *8) Because Love Only Happens in School
    *9) My Own Personal Style, Baby
    *10) I Choo-Choose You! (and other lame generic titles)

    * titles are tentative and chapters may be mixed around

    YEAH. I BROUGHT IT BACK FROM THE DEAD THREE FIVE TIMES NOW.

    Warning: This fic is crack. But I do like to think its crack with plot; it does have some sort of goal -- albeit I have no idea what that goal is. The summary, for once, is pretty accurate: the basic idea behind this story is the characters of G/S/C (who I personally think are different from HG/SS … maybe not Silver, but eh) are writing their own story. Back when I first started this story in ‘07, there were actually very little stories based on these characters.

    Next point is names. Years ago, people were freaking out that I was using Gold’s dubbed anime name, which is Jimmy, so I went back to calling him Kenta. Kris is Marina, and Silver is Kamon. I have no idea where Kamon came from. I think it’s just a fandom thing. They are more based off their anime counterparts than their game counterparts personality-wise, but their background comes from the games.

    Anything in italics is the three trainers' own “writing.” Anything not in italics is the “actual” story. I make it sound more complicated than it really is, but it's pretty easy to understand once you read it.

    Enjoy!

    .................................................
    From the Middle of Nowhere
    .................................................


    “I sometimes feel like we're forgotten. Lost ... behind ... forgotten.”

    “Excellent thesaurus use, Marina.”

    “For real. Have mercy on her, Entei, for she doth not knoweth anything.”

    “I don’t think ‘knoweth is a word, Kenta.”

    “Says your face.”

    “What face?”

    “I hate the fact that you repeated 'forgotten' in one line. You already made our fan fic sh[fon=verdana]i[/font]tty, Marina. Maybe that's why no one likes writing about us.”

    “I can’t tell who’s talking right now. I want to say its Kamon because that sounds like something that jerk-face would say. And you know what? Maybe it's you–”

    “And your face!”

    “Now I know that’s Kenta.”

    “Your face.”

    “No one has faces. Stop saying ‘your face.’”

    “Fine. Your lack of face.”

    A lone laptop, its bright glow illuminated the pitch-dark room, sat on top of a polished chestnut tabletop, a black leather chair positioned behind it. The laptop and table seemed to be the only things in the room, but eerily enough, the letters on the computer keyboard were being pressed into like someone was typing. The clatter of plastic against plastic rattled throughout the empty room. Someone’s thumbs were drumming against the space bar, echoing a hollow sound. The chair started to turn by itself, small twists left and right like someone was moving it by using their feet. The chair groaned – whoever was there leaning back in the chair as the back of the chair angled itself before snapping back straight.

    “I suppose we should make our bodies now,” the girl voice known as Marina commented as her invisible fingers darted down toward different letters on the keyboard. Words began to magically appear on the computer screen before the invisible hands quickly deleted them with the touch of the backspace button.

    “I guess, but it doesn't matter because either way I can kick Kamon's behind whether it's real or not,” a voice, rather deep in depth, answered back. By his tone, it was obvious that a smug smirk made its way toward his face.

    “Ha. Okay,” another voice of a boy replied back, sarcasm dripping off his tongue.

    The sapphire orbs of a young girl rolled inside her head as her two friends bickered at each other for another idiotic reason. The girl combed her hands through her thick locks of cerulean hair which were clipped up high into a pair of pigtails that swung from front to back in even the gentlest of winds. Her bangs teased her forehead, which were really annoying when frustration overcame her thoughts. A sigh escaped through her soft, pink lips as she gently brushed her bangs out of her eyes.

    Slowly but surely, said features that the ghostly hands typed began to appear out of thin air. First was the blue of the girl's eyes followed by the girl's blue pigtails that bounced with each movement. Her facial structure was next, strong cheekbones with a slightly pointy nose. Judgmental eyebrows were raised, the right one higher than the left. She lifted her arms, fingers wiggling in the empty black space above her, before dropping themselves back down onto the desk with a loud thump.

    “Fantastic information dumping,” Kamon muttered.

    “What is that? Who are you talking to? Me?” the girl asked, curling her “soft, pink lips.” She rolled herself back in the leather arm chair and crossed her legs at the ankle, admiring her sneakers.

    “Ah ... well, never mind.”

    The other voice had something else on mind. “Hey look, Kamon,” the other male voice remarked. “Marina has a face. Now can I say ‘your face?’”

    “How can you see it? You don't have eyes yet.”

    “Well, how can you hear me? You don't have ears.”

    “How can you even talk? You don't have a mouth. Let's keep it that way.”

    “The logic of this story confuses me.”

    Out of Marina's now developed mouth came a soft and almost gentle laugh that rung throughout the emptiness of the room. “Well, I guess I've got to finish the rest of me.”

    The girl straightened out her undershirt (which was the light color of coral pink) before pushing up the sleeves of her button-up white shirt to her elbows. This was useless though for the sleeves made their way back down, only adding up to the girl's frustration from the two boys' bickering. She hooked her thumbs on the elastic belt of her tight, yellow shorts as she kicked up the sandy ground with her shoes. The dirt rose from the girl's kick of annoyance, making her nostrils tingle. Marina, the girl, wiped her brow with her sleeve as she watched the boys continue to fight, her face screwed up in both amusement and anger.

    A small cough found its way out of Marina's mouth as her body and clothes began to develop from her pink blouse to yellow shorts.

    “I like 'em shorts, Marina.”

    “I betcha do.” She winked back to the black space in return. She kicked her legs in front of her, and, just like in the story she had partially written, kicked up the brown dust that swirled around the laptop.

    “It's called sarcasm.”

    “Sure, Kenta, whatever you say. I know you love me.” The blue-haired girl grinned to herself, her eyes darting back and forth as she read over what she typed so far. “I suppose I've got to make you guys now.”

    Meanwhile, as the girl finished off her hacking fit, the two boys continue to bicker, oblivious to her. One of them pumped his fist in the air as if it would help him prove his point, his brown eyes aflame from the exciting argument – though he would deny it if asked if it was. Like the girl, this boy had black bangs that came out from the hole in his backward yellow baseball cap in a rainbow-like arch. The sleeves of his red and white jacket were pushed down as he raised his fist in the air again. His baggy black and yellow shorts were loosely hung from his hips, almost meeting the tongues of his shoes.

    The other boy, however, was opposite of the other boy in training, appearance, and of course, debating. This boy's hands were shoved deeply within the pockets of his stormy-gray slacks, the sleeves of his red and black sweater being crinkled slightly. He flicked his red hair out of his crimson eyes with a swift movement of his head – a movement showing off the characteristics of arrogance and pride. He seemed calm and collected despite the crude comments coming out of his mouth that retaliated against the other boy's remarks. This boy was known as Kamon and the one with the yellow shorts Kenta.


    Hazy at first, two figures of two boys began to magically appear into the empty airspace.

    “Again, great thesaurus use,” Kamon said, clenching his left fist and staring at his nail beds. He shook his head, layers of hair brushing behind his shoulders. “This time for colors, too.”

    “You say it like it’s a bad thing.” She snorted. “Don’t fancy pants words make your story better or something?”

    “Actually–”

    “Hey! I'm a real boy!” Kenta interrupted in excitement as he raised his arms in the air and spun around in victory. “At least fan fiction-wise. And there's dirt on the ground! Awesome, Marina! Why am I talking so loud? Why am I so fucking excited?!”

    The red-haired trainer rolled his eyes at the other boy's antics as Kenta bent down and started to draw swirls in the dirt, rolling pebbles into his nails. With his belly pressed against the edge, he craned over the desk, neck turned, so he could see the laptop’s screen. He read over what Marina had recently typed, clucking his tongue in disapproval. “You describe funny. And heavily, I might add,” Kamon remarked haughtily. He brushed off Marina’s glare by raising his eyebrows. “'The one with the yellow shorts,' huh? That could mean you.”

    Kenta, who in his enthusiasm had lay down in the dirt and tried to make “dirt angels,” immediately sat up, nose wrinkled. “You mean someone could mistake me for a girl? And her of all girls?”

    Marina rolled back in her chair so she could take a full look at Kenta and put her hands on her hips, fuming, eyebrows furrowing together. “Oh? And what’s wrong with me of all girls?” she demanded, nostrils flaring.

    Kenta only grinned. “You’re unique and one of a kind, and no one could ever take your place, baby.” He winked at her, causing her to groan in response.

    “So suave,” Kamon mumbled under his breath, pushing his body back up and sitting on top of the table, the balls of his feet pressed delicately against the ground. He crossed his arms, pressing them against his stomach.

    Kenta hopped back onto his feet and brushed the dirt off his clothes. “Oh, you know. Practice,” he said idly, running his fingers down his t-shirt only to smack them against his shorts afterward. He strolled over to Marina, whose eyes were still wary from Kenta’s response, and grabbed the back of her chair, pushing her gently to the side so he could have room in front of the laptop. “All right,” he said, grinding his feet against the ground and letting the sand crunch underneath his soles. He cracked his knuckles and lightly placing his fingers on the keyboard, his body bending over a bit so his face was directly in front of the laptop’s screen. “We're going to fix this problem.”

    Kenta, the yellow shorts man, punched Kamon in the face with a powerful blow to the cheek. Kamon stumbled back in surprise and horror, his bangs falling into his eyes, blocking his vision. The redhead landed on his rear before his head met the hard, dirt ground. With arms and legs in an eagle-spread position, Kamon whimpered as the other boy hovered over him, his face in a menacing scowl, his fists clenched by his sides.

    “Now look what you made me do!” Kenta shouted in quite a bellow. Like a loud bellow. Like a clock tower bellow. He flicked his bangs upward, his eyes angry and narrowed.

    “Stop, please, Ken–yssdfjkl; f


    Kenta's paragraph was interrupted mid-dialogue as Kamon turned around and jumped him, knocking the two of them down with the redhead on top. Kenta let out a yelp in shock as he found himself on the dirt road of the room in the blink of an eye, Kamon pinning him down by the neck with one of his free hands, his right knee sinking into Kenta's stomach. His hair draped around the sides of his face; his mouth was in a grin. Dust swirled around them, diluting the black space around them.

    “'Now look what you made me do,'” Kamon mocked as he held his other fist above Kenta's face. He slowly gripped tighter around Kenta's neck, choking him painfully slow. Kenta’s limbs flailed, trying to kick off the trainer on top of him, but Kamon was anchored; if anything, his movements seemed to strengthen his rival’s grip.

    “For lugia’s sake,” Marina muttered pitifully, resting her right elbow on the arm of the chair. She dropped her head into her open palm and refused to look up, staring at the pockets of her shorts and musing how ridiculously short her shorts were in the first place.

    Holding his breath and trying not to swallow, Kenta eventually managed to kick Kamon off with his right leg, landing a blow directly on Kamon’s shin. With a few seconds of freedom, the black-haired boy quickly stood back up on his feet, his eyes narrowed in half indignation and half pain. But he couldn’t help it; he had to get the last jab in. He spat at Kamon's feet. The spit was bubbly and white, a bubble popping every few seconds before being absorbed into the dirt. Kamon rolled onto his back and positioned himself so that he was supported by the back of his arms. He stared. Kenta stared. Marina facepalmed.

    Silence.

    Kamon’s eyes darted between the wet spot of earth and Kenta’s smug grin. As Kenta ran a pointer finger around the brim of his sweaty cap, his weight shifted to his left leg, Kamon pushed himself back onto his feet. “Very mature,” he said coolly, hands laced behind his back, eyebrows raised. “But please let me return your maturity with some of my own.” The redhead dug the ball of his foot into the sandy floor and unlaced his hands as Kenta stared at him, left cheek scrunched up in amusement. Marina finally looked up, sighing to herself. She leaned back in the chair, the back spring groaning. Her heels dug into the ground.

    “Bring it, you–” A punch to the mouth interrupted Kenta mid-sentence as Kamon’s fist met his mouth. Kenta stumbled back and barely had time to register what happened before Kamon flew at him again, tackling the both of them to the ground in a heap. The two of them rolled around, and if Marina knew better, it looked like the two were in a loving embrace, their limbs wrapped around each other. Kamon’s hair was tangling itself around Kenta’s face. She saw Kenta’s hat fly off and land a couple of feet away (“My hat!” the boy whined), and he tried to scramble to grab it, but Kamon dragged him back toward him.

    “How sweet,” she muttered sarcastically before lightly scraping her front teeth against her bottom lip. Marina jumped onto her feet and walked over to the wrestling boys, lightly prodding the pile with her sneaker. “Okay, okay. That’s enough, you morons. You both are acting like a bunch of primeape.”

    Kenta pulled away from the heap and rolled away two times to reach his hat. “He started it,” he complained, throwing his hat back on and pulling his bangs through the back hole. He remained on his back as Kamon sat up and brushed the dirt off his clothing.

    “You’re the one that wrote that scene,” she reminded, hands on her hip as she peered over him. “Look. Do you remember why we’re here?”

    “You wrote some shittastic information dumping descriptive prose that brought us, and some dirt road that leads to nowhere, here?” Kamon answered.

    “I still have no idea who you’re talking to.” She tapped her foot to an unheard beat, right thigh shaking. “Anyway” –Marina’s eyes went up to look at the black air space above her–“we’re here because no one likes to write about us. Or they don’t write about us that often. If you compare the ratio of Red and Blue fics out there, or even those silly little Hoenn trainers, or Shinnoh or Sinnoh or whatever it’s called, we’re pretty much ... pretty much–”

    “Forgotten? Lost? Behind? Forgotten?”

    “Eff you, Kamon.” Marina scowled as Kamon smirked, pushing himself back onto his feet. “So let’s think. We have full control of our destinies. What else should we write about?”

    Kenta smiled cheekily. “Well, I believe I was in the middle of punching the lights out of Kamon.” He nudged the redhead trainer lightly who only socked him hard at the shoulder blade in return.

    “I’d swear you’re a masochist,” Kamon muttered, cracking his knuckles.

    “Nah. Just show me boobies and we’re all set.”

    “I totally didn’t need to know that.”

    “Now you do, and you’re a better person because of that.”

    “That reminds me.” Marina bent over and highlighted Kenta's paragraphs with the computer mouse. “Now you see it”–she pressed the backspace button–“and now you don't!”

    “Hey!” Kenta protested, his eyes widening at the sight of his hard work being deleted. “You didn't know where I was going with that!”

    Kamon snorted. “And where were you going with it, Kenta? Were you going to have the aliens come and eat my body?”

    “Please!” Kenta raised his arms and flicked his bangs. “Please! I have a better imagination than that. It’s even better.”

    “Oh?” Marina strolled over to her chair and plopped into it, sinking into the leather. “What would that be?” she asked, resting her arms on the chair’s handles and curling her fingers over the edge.

    “I was going to have the aliens land, eat Kamon’s body while I sweep you off into the distance in a romantic sort of embrace.”

    “Ah, right. Shipping is totally a way to get reviewers,” Kamon remarked as Marina stared at Kenta funnily, blue eyes blinking rapidly.

    “I know. These ‘reviewer’ people like it for some reason I don’t understand. ‘So kyyy-ute!’ Insert some sort of emoticon, preferably the one with the carats as eyes and the underscore as a mouth.”

    Marina awkwardly fidgeted, turning the chair back and forth with her feet. “Right. Story time.” She pulled herself back toward the chestnut desk and stared at the word processor, the whiteness of the screen casting her skin in a pale light. “What should our story be about?” She tapped her fingers on the keyboard. “Action? Adventure? Romance? I know you want that, Kenta.”

    Kenta rolled his eyes. “Yet again, I repeat, sarcasm.”

    Kamon ran a hand through his loose locks of hair as he bent next to Marina and stared at the computer screen with her. “Well, let's think about what we have so far. We've got the three of us standing in the middle of a dirt road, apparently, with Kenta and me fighting. Wow, the possibilities are endless.”

    “No need for sarcasm, Kamon, because Kenta has that characteristic apparently,” Marina commented coolly as Kenta smiled sheepishly at her. “We've obviously got to think of a plot that will beat all the other game characters out there. But what?”

    Kamon stared at the screen grimly. “This fan fic crap is harder than it looks.”

    “Your face.”

    “Shut up, Kenta.”
    Last edited by Breezy; 19th April 2011 at 12:23 AM.

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